


Red Like Roses

by enigmalea



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Depression, F/M, Grief/Mourning, Grieving Sherlock, M/M, Mycroft's Meddling, No Porn, No Sex, No Smut, Post-Episode: s02e03 The Reichenbach Fall, Post-Episode: s03e01 The Empty Hearse, Post-Reichenbach, SO SORRY, Suicidal Thoughts, emotional angst, no happy ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-01
Updated: 2019-01-01
Packaged: 2019-09-22 22:34:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,173
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17068433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/enigmalea/pseuds/enigmalea
Summary: A Song Fic inspired byRed Like Roses Part IIfrom R.W.B.Y. because for some reason I write Sherlock fanfic while listening to the R.W.B.Y. soundtracks, and was struck at how much this song fit John and Sherlock post-Reichenbach. PLEASE READ BEGINNING NOTES FOR TRIGGER WARNINGS.John caught himself sometimes, waking up at 3 am, expecting to hear a violin, even though he didn't live at 221B any longer. There were times he opened his fridge, expecting to find some dismembered body parts or intentionally growing mold or Petri dishes with cultured bacteria which could probably kill them if it mixed with their food. He sometimes took the wrong train home and had to double back to his new flat. He found himself picking up Sherlock’s favourite biscuits at the store only to put them back on the shelf twenty minutes later when he realised what he’d done.





	Red Like Roses

**Author's Note:**

> If you've never heard the song click [here](https://youtu.be/za6PmaVY2NY) to listen on YouTube. Also... you should watch R.W.B.Y.
> 
> WARNING: This fic deals with some heavy emotional issues including grief, depression, and suicidal thoughts. They may not be 100% accurate depictions, but then again, everyone experiences these things differently. Please don't read this if these issues could be triggering. The mature rating is specifically for these issues and not anything sexual in nature.

_I couldn't take it, couldn't stand another minute;_  
_Couldn't bear another day without you in it_  
_All of the joy that I had known for all my life_  
_Was stripped away from me the minute that you died_

 _To have you in my life was all I ever wanted_  
_But now without you, I'm a soul forever haunted_  
_Can't help but feel that I had taken you for granted;_  
_No way in Hell that I can ever comprehend this_

 _I wasn't dreaming when they told me you were gone_  
_I was wide awake and feeling that they had to be wrong_  
_How could you leave me when you swore that you would stay?_  
_Now I'm trapped inside a nightmare every single f'ing day_

* * *

_“Please, will you do this for me?” Sherlock asked. John swore he could hear a slight tremble in his voice. His eyes were locked on the outline of the consulting detective so high up on the roof of St. Bartholomew’s Hospital. He worried what Sherlock would do if he tried to stop him; he worried what he would do if he didn’t try to stop him. He couldn’t make it there in time. His heart hammered in his chest, cutting off the oxygen to his brain._

_“Do what?” John managed to choke out. His throat was thick with fear._

_“This phone call, it's… it's my note. It's what people do, don't they? Leave a note?” Sherlock half-laughed. It wasn’t as if he ever did anything other people did. Why should now be different? Why would he do this? Why?_

_“Leave a note when?” John knew when, but he didn’t want to accept it. He couldn’t accept it. Not now. Not Sherlock._

_“Goodbye, John.”_

“SHERLOCK!” John awoke screaming in his nearly empty flat. Three weeks. Three weeks since Sherlock had stepped off the roof of Bart’s and John was still reliving the moment every night. He’d returned to 221B Baker Street that first night, sat in his chair, and not moved for… well, he wasn’t sure how long, really. Days, at least, judging by how he smelled and felt when he came to, and the number of full, untouched cups of tea and coffee Mrs. Hudson had set out for him.

And just like that he’d gotten up, showered, packed a bag, and moved out. He hadn’t said goodbye to Mrs. Hudson. At first, he’d just stayed in a crummy motel for a couple of days, because being in the flat hurt. It was too much. Every breath was filled with Sherlock’s scent. Everything he looked at belonged to Sherlock or reminded him of Sherlock. If he had stayed there, every cell of his body would contain an emptiness so unfillable, he’d have drowned in it if drowning in an absence were possible. Because although everything there was Sherlock’s… it wasn’t the man. It couldn’t complete him as Sherlock had.

The next Monday, he showed up at the surgery as if he hadn’t missed an entire week of work and was surprised to find he’d been placed on an official leave of absence. Whether they knew because of the media coverage and Sarah had done him a favour or if it were because of Mycroft or some other friend who had pulled strings, John never found out. He didn’t really care to.

They gave him the day of the funeral off. He hadn’t asked for it, didn’t even know how they know. He wasn’t sure he could go, but when the day came he did. Mycroft was there. So was Lestrade and Donovan and Anderson and half the police force, interspersed with clients and victims or victim's families. It took everything he had not to smack the hell out of Donovan. She was at least partially responsible for this. It took even more control for him not to attack Mycroft; he was more responsible for this than anyone. Sherlock’s parents were suspiciously absent, but John supposed he understood. He wasn’t sure he could do it; they must be having an even rougher time than he was.

Mrs. Hudson tried to talk to him, but John couldn’t bear to look at her. He wasn’t even sure what she said, he just nodded noncommittally whenever he detected she asked a question. John wasn’t sure how it happened, but after the funeral, Mrs. Hudson had joined him on one side and Lestrade on the other, both with their arms hooked discretely into his, as the various friends and clients and officers began filing by him, offering condolences and shaking his hand. They were treating him as if he were Sherlock’s spouse.

He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, couldn’t feel. The high-pitched noise that had been ringing in his ears since that morning threatened to explode his eardrums, increasing in frequency and pitch until he was almost certain he’d go deaf. By the tenth handshake, he was glad Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade were there to hold him up. His legs threatened to buckle and his stomach threatened to empty its contents… not that it had any. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten.

His eyes and throat and tongue felt raw as if they’d been rubbed for hours with sandpaper. He was too dehydrated to cry. He was weak. He was exhausted. He didn’t want to do this anymore. But still they came, well-wishers and friends, some of whom had no idea what exactly Sherlock had meant to him, how the man had saved him, how much he’d _loved_ him.

It felt weird to admit that now… now that it was too late.

Lestrade offered to drive him home. He remembered nodding weakly to the offer because he couldn’t stand the thought of the tube or a bus or even a cab. When the Detective Inspector began driving toward 221B Baker Street, John had lost it. He wasn’t sure what he said, but he knew that he had screamed and shouted and refused to return. He was relatively sure, from the bruising on his hands, he’d punched the dash of the car repeatedly… and hard enough it may have dented. Lestrade deposited him back at the motel, begging him to call someone, anyone, to talk. He didn’t offer to be the one; John suspected he knew he was out of his depth. He was _always_ out of his depth.

That was the week he went numb because he just couldn’t stand to feel anymore. He took more hours at the surgery, not because he wanted them, but because the monotony helped to relieve the crushing loneliness, and gave him fewer hours to dwell and cry. With the numbness settled in, he managed to return to Baker Street. He packed a few more of his things, cleaned out the fridge, and took his gun. He wasn’t sure why he did that. He had no plans for it… no intentions. Yet.

That Saturday, he located a new flat, and took it, sight unseen. It was the right price, it was furnished, and he really didn’t care what it looked like, as long as the ghost of Sherlock wasn’t there.

Why couldn’t he have just told Sherlock what he felt? Why did Sherlock have to kill himself? Why did he lie about his talent? Why was this the only way out? Why did he have to call him a machine? Why did he expect the detective to always be there? Why had he taken him – his friendship, his brilliance, his kindness - for granted? Why? Why? Why?

* * *

_It's like a movie, but there's not a happy ending;_  
_Every scene fades black, and there's no pretending_  
_This little fairy tale doesn't seem to end well_  
_There's no knight in shining armor who will wake me from the spell_

 _I know you didn't plan this;_  
_You tried to do what's right_  
_But in the middle of this madness_  
_I'm the one you left to win this fight_

* * *

Three months. Three months without Sherlock. It hadn’t gotten any easier. Everyone said it would.

That was a lie.

John caught himself sometimes, waking up at 3 am, expecting to hear a violin, even though he no longer lived at 221B. There were times he opened his fridge, expecting to find some dismembered body parts or intentionally growing mold or Petri dishes with cultured bacteria which could probably kill them if it mixed with their food. He sometimes took the wrong train home and had to double back to his new flat. He found himself picking up Sherlock’s favourite biscuits at the store only to put them back on the shelf twenty minutes later when he realised what he’d done.

He caught himself right before he sent texts asking Sherlock to stop pretending to be dead, asking him to come back, asking him to give up the ruse and just… stop. He wasn’t sure if he really thought that was what was happening here, or if he was just holding onto some glimmer of hope, fueled by Sherlock’s last words. He was sure there was a coded message in them. Why else would Sherlock have spewed a false confession as a note?

 _That_ he knew wasn’t real. Sherlock was not a fake. It wasn’t a trick. Not his brilliance, anyway. His death, well, that might be a magic trick, but John hadn’t seen any evidence of it so far. He listened closely to the news, waiting for hints of difficult cases being solved, mysteries miraculously presenting themselves with solutions, but he wasn’t smart enough for that. All the data just turned into noise for him. He would need Sherlock to find Sherlock in it all.

Or Mycroft.

But he didn’t want to see that traitor. Mycroft would likely make fun of him for his sentimentality, and John wasn’t sure he could handle that. Missing Sherlock wasn't sentimentality or some fanciful romanticism... missing Sherlock was like lacking oxygen. He felt the crushing weight of a doom he couldn’t shake. He told himself he would do something about this feeling soon; he would find a psychiatrist if it didn't get better soon. But how soon was soon enough? How long was it supposed to take to get over the loss of your other half?

As much as John didn't believe in love at first sight or even the concept of soulmates, he had to admit... the bond he'd felt with Sherlock was much stronger than he'd ever seen described. Within hours of meeting, he'd known the man was in trouble. He was fiercely protective. He was awed, overwhelmed, and captivated. Sherlock had inspired in him something so deep, he wasn't sure there was a word for it. Even love seemed inadequate, although he accepted now, he did love his friend.

And now that was gone. Nothing would bring Sherlock back. Nothing could ever make him feel whole again.

There would be no happy ending for John Watson.

That was Sherlock’s fault. Sometimes John thought if Sherlock had just let him help with Moriarty instead of withdrawing in some misguided attempt to protect him, he could have somehow made things end differently. He knew Sherlock hadn’t planned out suicide or thought about it in depth. It was an impulse, brought on by something Moriarty had said or done. It was the only plausible way out at that moment. But if John had been there, maybe there would have been another option. Beneath the sadness and emptiness, an anger began to burn, simmering just beneath the overwhelming grief and loneliness.

* * *

_Red like roses_  
_Fills my head with dreams and finds me_  
_Always closer_  
_To the emptiness and sadness_  
_That has come to take the place of you_

* * *

The nightmares were less realistic now. Less realistic, but harder to deal with. Sometimes, John woke sobbing, gasping for air, a vision of Sherlock’s blood spread on the pavement: warm, wet, and crimson red. He could remember the sharp tangy smell of it, the feeling of Sherlock’s wrist in his hand, limp, still warm… but no pulse. The vivid reality had started to blend into symbolism, the red of his blood becoming rose petals which withered and died in front of John as he desperately tried to keep them alive.

Other times, he awoke angry and shaking and ready to lash out at everyone and everything. In these nightmares, he had never left Sherlock, never yelled at him or run off to help Mrs. Hudson. Instead, he’d stayed with him until the very end. He was on the roof with him, during the phone call, and when Sherlock realised it, he started running, leading Watson on a wild chase through London. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t catch up. They always ended up back on the roof of Bart’s with Sherlock jumping and John not able to get to him quickly enough.

Without consciously making the decision, John started drinking more. Just a beer before bed, to help suppress the dreams, but soon enough one beer wasn’t enough, and then, the beer itself wasn’t enough. Whiskey became his drink of choice. The burn in his throat brought tears to his eyes, but it was okay because these tears weren’t Sherlock’s fault.

He sometimes went days without eating, except when Sarah made him. He didn’t even realise it was happening until Sarah caught him when he nearly fainted from low blood sugar one day. After that, he was more careful to eat lunch, at least. That should have worried him more than it did. That should have been the sign it was time to seek help; Sarah had begged him to see someone, had even threatened to put him on leave again until he did. John had assured her he was fine, he’d just been running late and not had a chance to eat breakfast. He must have done a better job at lying than he realised because she dropped the subject and didn’t push again.

It wasn’t until weeks later when a new pattern started that John decided enough was enough. He’d drunk himself into a stupor and passed out in the bed, sometime after midnight. He’d awoken the next morning with a start, jolting awake almost violently, surprised that his gun was lying on the pillow next to him, the barrel pointed toward him. This had happened before, after his discharge, except the gun was always pointed away. Once was bad enough, but it happened a second and third time.

He still wasn’t spurred into action. Not until he came to from an almost fugue state. He hadn’t drunk that much that night, but he found himself suddenly sitting in his bed no memory of how he’d gotten there, the weight of the gun in his hand, his thumb rubbing over it almost lovingly. He remembered contemplating the weight of it, the cold contact of the metal against his skin, and whether it would hurt if he ever got enough courage to put it to his temple and pull the trigger. He wondered why he just didn’t do it as there was no point to being there anymore. He didn’t have to worry about Sherlock finding the body. No one would miss him immediately.

With a shaking hand, he’d set the gun on his dresser. He hadn’t drunk the rest of the night, but he also hadn’t slept either, jolting himself awake every time he’d nodded off, afraid of what he might do if he allowed his subconscious to take over.

The next day, he drove promptly to Scotland Yard and handed the unloaded gun over to Lestrade, asking him to keep it for a bit. The Detective Inspector didn’t ask why he simply nodded and promised he’d keep it until John was ready to have it again. That done, he picked up his phone, called Ella, and asked for her first available appointment.

* * *

_I know you’re broken down by anger and by sadness;_  
_You feel I left you in a world that’s full of madness_  
_Wish I could talk to you, if only for a minute;_  
_Make you understand the reasons why I did it_

 _I wanna tell you that you’re all that ever mattered;_  
_Want you to know that, for eternity, I’m shattered_  
_I tried so hard just to protect you, but I failed to_  
_And in a prison of abandonment I’ve jailed you_

* * *

Sherlock stared intently at the photographs of John Mycroft had sent him. He took in the image of his friend, heavy bags under his eyes and a haunted look. He’d lost weight – at least a stone, maybe more. It had been months since his final showdown with Moriarty. John should have recovered by now. Really, he never should have fallen this deep into a hole. It seemed Sherlock had vastly underestimated how much John had cared.

 _Caring is not an advantage_. Yes, he could see that now.

The stills from the CCTV footage were damning. John was simply existing… going through the motions. In none of the images was there a hint of a smile, a single bit of engagement in the world around him, he was in a place that was much darker than the one he was in when he’d bumped into Mike Stamford that fateful day. He hadn’t been out with friends in a long time. Groceries were sparing. Alcohol was copious. He seemed to be stuck in a rotation of the surgery and home.

With a shaking hand, Sherlock shredded the images and then tossed the shreds and the envelope into the fireplace of the small cottage in which he was staying. He had to do something. Maybe he could get a message to John, speak with him. Just a word was all it would take, a hint he was alive and would be returning for him. John was a man of optimism and hope (usually), so even the tiniest hint that things would be okay could sustain him until he could see him.

Maybe a text. A text could work. From a burner phone. A text would be enough for Watson to understand. There would be questions, of course, but they would have to wait. The work itself shouldn’t take him long. Surely, as long as he knew Sherlock was alive, he would be okay. He could understand Sherlock’s reasoning. Maybe he could even forgive him.

He pulled the blanket the monks had provided him tighter. Tomorrow… tomorrow he would walk into the village… he would call… he would call Mycroft. It couldn’t be John, no matter how much he wanted to apologize for leaving him; no matter how hard it was to know that he’d hurt John. He couldn’t explain how and why until he returned with the work done. To do so would put John and Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson… possibly the very heart of London itself… in danger. With Moriarty gone, a power vacuum existed, now was the only chance to bring down his network.

His own heart ached. Soon. He would return to John, to all of them, soon and explain. They would forgive him. Wouldn’t they?

He fell asleep on the rug, wrapped in the blanket, dreaming of London and John and cases, and awoke the next morning, the fire out and his bones aching from the cold, hard floor. This was what it must be to be old. When he returned, he’d attempt to be nicer to Mrs. Hudson. Maybe he’d bring her a year’s supply of herbal soothers for her hip.

He bundled up for the cold and snow and slowly made his way down the mountain to the nearby village. He was shaking and near hypothermia by the time he reached the restaurant where he could borrow a phone and call Mycroft. The restaurant would be heavily compensated for the long-distance charges. They already were receiving untraceable wire transfers for being accommodating.

The phone rang three times before Mycroft picked up. “You shouldn’t be calling,” Mycroft said, his voice sluggish. He’d been sleeping. Sherlock didn’t care about time zones, didn’t care about Mycroft’s beauty rest.

“I received the photographs,” Sherlock said through chattering teeth.

“I see.” His brother’s voice was cold, impersonal, but not as cold as his toes or fingers or nose or even the tips of his ears.

“He needs help,” Sherlock stated. He tried to keep his voice even, but it wasn’t. Thankfully, it only hinted at the anguish he felt. However, that was more than enough for Mycroft to deduce Sherlock’s feelings. Damn him. “You have to help him.”

Mycroft scoffed. “And what am I supposed to do, brother mine?”

“You’ll think of something.”

“No.”

The rage that he felt built and threatened to boil over quickly. It took everything he had not to scream and beat the receiver of the phone to pieces against the restaurant’s counter. This was all Mycroft’s fault. All of it. But the need to have a secure line to London was more important than anything emotional. He took a steadying breath. “You’ll think of something or I will return. Now. I will stop my work and return to London.” To _John_. He managed to keep his voice even, but it was a bloody miracle.

Mycroft sighed heavily. “Fine. I’ll think of something.”

“I want an update in four weeks-“

“Six. I need time.”

“Four. Or I’m coming home,” Sherlock threatened. His patience was wearing thin.

“How goes the work?” Mycroft must have known he was serious because he didn’t argue the point.

“I’m almost done here,” Sherlock stated simply. There was no point in details, Mycroft was aware, and although the line was relatively secure, the people in the restaurant may not be. “Four weeks, Mycroft.”

“Four weeks.”

* * *

“Mary Morstan,” Mycroft said as the bleached blond woman entered the abandoned warehouse Anthea had delivered her to.

Mary’s blood ran cold. She recognised the voice, but only the voice. He’d only ever been a voice on the phone before now. The man before her wasn’t exactly what she’d been expecting, but then, the voices on the phone never were what you were expecting. He looked as if she could snap him in half without trying… but those were typically the most dangerous sort. “Whatever you want, the answer is no,” she said as she stopped before him. Her posture was defensive, hands in the pockets of her coat. Mycroft was aware she likely had a weapon and could kill him in a matter of seconds. He would need to tread carefully.

“I need you… for a mission,” Mycroft began quietly.

“I’m retired,” Mary stated, “but thank you for your consideration.” She didn’t attempt to leave. She was not so foolish as to turn her back on this man.

He inhaled sharply and nodded. “I’m aware, but there is a man-“

“I won’t kill anyone for you,” Mary said. It seemed she felt beating around the bush would get her nowhere. She was attempting to be direct as if that would prevent him from making this offer.

In spite of himself, Mycroft chuckled. “On the contrary, dear, this man… I need you to help him _live_.”

“I’m listening,” she said with a quirk of an eyebrow. She withdrew her hands from her pockets and laced the fingers together in front of her, a sign she was actually listening and was no longer planning to shoot him on the spot. Mycroft had hoped she would be interested, not for John’s sake, of course, but for Sherlock’s.

Mycroft withdrew an envelope from his pocket, noticing that Mary had tensed slightly when he reached into his coat. “Photographs,” he explained and she relaxed a bit. He handed her the envelope. “His name is Dr. John Watson. He has… lost something very dear to him recently… and could… use some encouragement to continue. I need you to be that encouragement.”

She flipped through the photographs slowly taking in the worn features of the man in the photographs. Military. Doctor. Depressed. Deeply. Maybe a retired agent, but that didn’t make sense. Why would he be this important? “What is it to you?" Mary asked. “Why does the British government care if he offs himself?”

“The British Government doesn’t. He’s… a family friend,” Mycroft stated.

“So, this is a personal favour, then?” Mary asked. In spite of herself, her thumb traced over the image of the man in the photographs. _John_. There was something about him that made her want to help him. He seemed like a good man. Maybe even a great one.

Mycroft shifted and looked away from her gaze. It made him uncomfortable to be here, asking _this_ woman for anything. But she had retired, looking for something, and Watson had shattered and needed something to fill the vacancy Sherlock had left and Sherlock… well, he needed to know Watson was well. This could work. “Of sorts.”

“And what do I get out of this?”

Mycroft shifted his weight against the ever-present umbrella, spinning it on its tip absent-mindedly. “You weren’t difficult to find, Mary. You were already on our radar. It took me less than a day to confirm who and what you had been. Your cover… well… it was sloppy. Easily penetrable by anyone who knows what to look for. I will make it less transparent, more difficult to trace. I will ensure you can stay retired, for as long as I possibly can, and make it more difficult for people who want to find you to do so. You will also get the chance at a normal life… with him.”

Mary’s lips pressed into a thin line. “That’s it?”

The man nodded once. “Isn’t that enough?”

“Yes,” she answered, her voice thick. She handed the envelope back to him as he gave her a smile. The smile didn’t reach his eyes, and it gave him the ruthless appearance of a predatory cat who was about to eat the canary. Mary just barely prevented herself from shuddering.

“Excellent,” he stated. “I’ll have Anthea forward you some details, so you can plan your approach. I’m sure I don’t have to tell you to be discreet. He mustn’t know about our connection.” Mary nodded her understanding. “Good day, Ms. Morstan,” Mycroft stated, and to show his trust of her he turned and left the warehouse, much the same way he had done with John Watson two years prior.

* * *

The drop off for the new set of photographs came precisely four weeks after his phone call. They were left for him in a bin in a lobby in a hostel in India. Thank God it was India. After the freezing cold of the Himalayan winter, he’d needed someplace warmer. He’d thought he’d never be warm again.

He retrieved the photographs as discretely as possible and tucked them into the waistband of his trousers. Thankfully, none of his bunkmates were in their room as he slid into his bunk. He’d begun to suspect one of them may have a connection to Moriarty and may be waiting for an opportunity to kill him.

To anyone who wasn’t Sherlock, the photographs would have been worse this time around. John’s hair had grown out, even shaggier than it had been compared to the close military haircut he’d had when they’d first met. He wasn’t paying attention to grooming. He’d lost more weight. But there were subtle signs of improvement.

The grocery bags he held when he left the market were fuller now. There was less alcohol and more veg. A familiar sparkled had returned to his eyes, pushing away the hollow look. There was a photograph of him with Lestrade at a pub with John only drinking water. And the last photograph… the last photograph was the most important. It was a close-up of John, smiling at someone almost bashfully. The smile didn’t quite reach his eyes, but it was there… it was _almost_.

Sherlock’s eyes filled with tears and he gasped deeply, unsure if he’d be able to breathe again. Whatever Mycroft had done… whatever plan he’d concocted… had worked. John would be okay. Sherlock was equal parts relieved and upset that John had been able to recover without hearing from him. Part of him had wanted that excuse to come home, to leave this suicide mission and return to John. All of this had been to protect him, and instead, Sherlock had plunged him into misery. He’d made a mistake, but he was in too far to back out now.

He had to see this through.

* * *

_I never planned that I would leave you there alone_  
_I was sure that I would see you when I made it back home_  
_And all the times I swore that it would be okay;_  
_Now I’m nothing but a liar, and you're thrown into the fray_

 _This bedtime story ends with misery ever after_  
_The pages are torn, and there’s no final chapter_  
_I didn’t have a choice, I did what I had to do;_  
_I made a sacrifice, but forced a bigger sacrifice on you_

 _I know you've lived a nightmare;_  
_I caused you so much pain_  
_But baby, please don’t do what I did;_  
_I don’t want you to waste your life in vain_

* * *

It had taken two years. The days had started to blend together; the time seemed surreal. Sherlock was aware of it passing, but never really fully comprehended how much time it had been. Not until he saw that picture of John with that ridiculous mustache. He claimed it was the mustache which aged him - and it had, to a degree - but more than that, it was the grief… the loss. He could see it as clearly in the photographs as he saw it in person.

He hadn't expected rage from John. Not in the intensity he'd found it. He probably deserved it, which is why he let it happen; Sherlock knew how to defend himself physically and could have stopped John's attacks if he'd wanted to. However, there was no defence for his behavior, for his abandonment. John's girlfriend (why had he been shocked to see that he'd had one?) said that she would talk to him. She must have. Because Sherlock found himself face-to-face with John Watson, who had knocked - knocked! - on the door for 221B Baker Street and was currently staring at Sherlock from across the threshold as if he needed an invitation.

Did he need an invitation?

"John… uh… um… do come in," Sherlock invited, stepping aside for the man to enter. Something about that small act, John's waiting for an invitation, had thrown Sherlock off. He was stumbling to find his center. "Would… would you like tea? I'll make tea." The urge to do something - anything - other than have John silently stare at him with barely concealed hurt and anger was nearly overwhelming. He fluttered about the kitchen, selecting two mugs, filling the electric kettle, turning it on, setting out sugar and milk, selecting two tea bags.

"Sherlock. Sherlock!" John's voice snapped him out of his business and he turned to look at the shorter man, who was, thankfully, without a mustache. He looked a little bit like himself now, except that he wasn't awestruck by Sherlock any longer. The look in his eyes was unfamiliar, dark and sad. "I said I don't want tea. I won't be long."

"Don't be foolish; of course you'll have tea. You always have tea." Sherlock stood fixed in his spot, unable to move now, a stark contrast to the flurry of motion he was before. The tea bags in his hand felt ephemeral; as if they may float away if he didn't hold them tightly. With shaking hands, he unwrapped them both slowly and deposited them into the waiting mugs.

"No. No tea. I just came by for an explanation - not _what_ you did, not _how_ you survived - but _why_ you did it and how… how you could do that to _me_ ," John said softly.

"Why don't you have a seat, John?" Sherlock asked, motioning to John's chair. He'd cleaned the flat drastically, thrown himself into it with more fervor than he'd ever shown for cleaning. The chair, which had been covered in dust, was now pristine for John, ready for his eventual return. He wanted John to notice that, to realise what that meant.

"Um… no. No, I won't be here long," John insisted. He folded his hands over his chest, adopting his stern expression. Captain Watson sometimes reared his head at the most inopportune times. Sherlock wasn't sure who he was trying to convince - himself or Sherlock.

Sherlock nodded. "Moriarty was going to kill you and there was no other way for me to save you than to leave." The confession came out in a rush and with such force, it caused Sherlock to waiver unsteadily on his feet. He gripped the counter in an attempt to hide it, but he was certain he wasn't successful. He continued to hold onto the counter, allowing it to steady him.

John laughed, scoffed really as if the statement was the least believable explanation Sherlock could have provided. "Really? Two years and that's the best you can do?"

"It's true, John," Sherlock said softly. "Moriarty warned me. He told me he was going to burn the very heart out of me. He…" _succeeded by the looks of it_ , "was nearly successful."

John's jaw clenched. "But you couldn't tell me? Couldn't let me help you?"

Sherlock closed his eyes and took a steadying breath, realising it came out far too shaky. He wanted to reveal the truth of the situation with as much aplomb as he normally did his deductions, but it was turning out to be not as easy as a deduction. He shoved his emotions down as best as he could - locked away the fear and guilt and loss and loneliness - and channeled his emotionless reason. "When Mycroft caught Moriarty, they tried every technique they knew to extract information from him. Moriarty dealt - not only in domestic crimes like serial killings but also in treason, terrorism, assassinations, and more. They'd been after him for years but were never able to pinpoint the center of the tangled web he'd woven. Not until he revealed himself to get to me. So when it became clear he would never talk without getting what he wanted from them about me in turn, Mycroft contacted me for help. We fed him information, things we knew he was after, in exchange for secrets concerning his network, key operations which had been putting our country in danger for years."

"You knew? You knew Mycroft was giving him your history?" John asked with widened eyes. The shock and concern was clear on his face, and for a moment, Sherlock was surprised to realise John had figured that much out. He was so proud of him.

"Yes," Sherlock answered without hesitation. "It was a risk we were both willing to take, knowing he would enact some grand final plan to take me down. What we didn't count on was that he would be so… thorough. We expected him to attack my career, my name, my reputation. Both of us failed to anticipate Moriarty would consider the human element."

"The human element?" John asked. He had uncrossed his arms from his chest, now, and had shrugged off his coat, holding it loosely in his hand. It was a sign, however subconscious, he was willing to stay now, at least temporarily. Sherlock relaxed a bit. Maybe he could salvage this after all.

"Yes. Moriarty went after the people I care about."

"The people-"

"You, John. You… and Mrs. Hudson… and Lestrade. He missed Molly Hooper, and… though I am loathed to admit it… Mycroft… but he got the most important." Sherlock stumbled then, over the confessions and the emotions, but thankfully was able to hide it as the kettle alerted it was ready. He didn't pour the water over the bags just yet, waiting for the moment when John would fully forgive him and the tea would become less a sign of his nervouseness and a sign of their shared camaraderie instead. "We had calculated what we thought were all of the possible outcomes, and it became clear he was going for the full gambit. He wanted to discredit me, leave me shamed, and force me… force me to kill myself. That was easy. We had several plans which would allow me to fake a suicide successfully, but we didn't take into account he would make you all targets. I failed… I failed to consider… well, quite a bit actually."

Sherlock licked his lips as he paused but pushed forward, forcing himself to reveal the whole truth of what had happened. "When we were on that roof, Moriarty revealed he'd assigned three assassins to you, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade. The only way for them to be stopped was with my death or with him issuing the recall phrase. To stop me from forcing the recall phrase from him, he killed himself, so that left me with no choice but to go through with the plan we code-named Lazarus. The intention had always been that I would enter a brief contract with MI6 if I had to go through with a faked suicide and that I would be responsible for dismantling Moriarty's network. I couldn't tell you because… well, Mycroft told me not to. I realise now, it's because if I had… he didn't think your grief would be… convincing…" His voice faltered then and he couldn't push on through the explanation; there wasn't much left anyway. He looked away from John, who was staring at him with such intensity Sherlock thought he may catch fire from John's gaze.

"So… your story is… you did it to save my life?" John whispered, "and to take down a terrorist network? And that I couldn't know because… because I might not miss you enough?"

He thought he might faint, hearing the anguish in John's soft words. He felt unsteady on his feet and he found himself leaning fully against the counter rather than just gripping it with white knuckles. Knowing he was the cause of that pain was more weight than he could bear. The silence stretched between them, so Sherlock poured the water into the mug over the tea bags. He could hear John shifting on his feet as the time stretched on. He was becoming impatient, but Sherlock wasn't sure he could answer.

"I… I didn't think I mattered that much to you," he whispered, so softly he wasn't sure John could hear him. It had to be soft. If he tried to speak louder, John might hear the tears threatening to escape. "I thought… you might miss me, but… you could move on, easily…"

"You bloody idiot!" John shouted and Sherlock jumped.

The noise spurred him into action and he dropped some sugar into the mug quickly, poured the milk that had been waiting. He thrust the mug out to John, even though the tea would be too weak. He needed something to distract John from his anger. "Take the tea, John," he said firmly.

"I _loved_ you."

"Please take the tea, John," his hand shook, but he couldn't look at John, couldn't see the pain. _Loved. Loved. Past tense. Oh God. Past tense._ Sherlock's heart was hammering in his chest, threatening to beat out of it in a dramatic explosion.

"I don't want your fucking tea, Sherlock! I… look at me!" He followed the command, almost instinctively, his eyes locking with John's handsome face, twisted with emotion. His eyes were filled with rage, but his expression was… something else… something Sherlock couldn't place. The tea was still outstretched, waiting for John to take it from Sherlock's trembling hand. He didn't. "I loved you. I would have gladly joined MI6 for you, followed you… wherever. Or I would have stayed here, worrying sick about whether you were safe. I would have diligently cried at your funeral, avoided social obligations, pretended to miss you terribly… if only it would have been pretending. Instead… I nearly followed you into death. If it hadn't been for Lestrade… and Ella… and Mary, really if it hadn't been for Mary, you would have had nothing to return to," John swayed on his feet and shrugged his coat on.

"John, there's a case… an impending terrorist attack-"

"So you said."

"I need your help."

"No."

"No?"

"I need time, Sherlock."

"Take the tea, John." The suggestion was a plea, almost desperate for John to comply, but the soldier turned on his heel and showed himself to the door. "John, take the tea… stay… please don't… please don't leave me." The answer was the sound of the door slamming shut. Without really thinking about what he was doing, his grasp on the mug loosened and the mug hit the floor, shattering into pieces. He stood, frozen in place, unable to force himself to begin cleaning up. He wanted to retreat into his mind palace, to figure out how to fix it, but in his panic, he couldn't seem to find the way in. The door opened a moment later.

"Sherlock, dear, what was all that noise?" Mrs. Hudson asked.

That seemed to snap him out of his fugue and he grabbed the trash can and the kitchen roll and began to clean up. "It was nothing, Mrs. Hudson, just dropped a mug."

"Oh, let me help," she said, bending to help him retrieve the larger pieces of the mug.

"You don't have to… your hip…"

"It's fine, Sherlock, fine. Why don't you go sit on the sofa? I'll get us both some biscuits and make another cuppa, and you can tell me all about this thing you're working on for Mycroft," she answered kindly. She patted Sherlock on the shoulder, encouraging him to leave the mess.

"But you're not my housekeeper," Sherlock whispered as his eyes locked with hers. They seemed knowing, far too knowing, and he wondered how much she'd overheard of his conversation with John. The walls were thin and she was awfully nosy.

"Just this once, dear."

* * *

_Red like roses_  
_Fills my head with dreams and finds me_  
_Always closer_  
_To the emptiness and sadness_  
_That has come to take the place of you_

* * *

He was so intent on making it home, so caught up in thoughts of happy reunions and warm welcomes upon his return, Sherlock hadn't taken time to process the horrors he'd endured. It was no surprise, then, that a few days after his return the nightmares began. There wasn't a coherent story to them, a logical flow of one scene to the next which allowed Sherlock to piece together any sort of narrative. Instead, there were only sensations: intense physical pain caused by knives and hooks and electricity, cold so bitter he thought he would lose his toes and fingers, heat so intense he thought he may die of dehydration, being surrounded by water until he couldn't help but welcome it into his lungs when he gasped for air. There was terror and loneliness and bitter rage.

There were attempts at do-overs, 'what if' scenarios; what if he'd stroked John's hand lightly when he'd checked his pulse? Would John have concluded it was a death spasm? Or would he have taken it as a sign he was still alive? Would he have cried out, alerting Moriarty's agents that Sherlock was still alive? Would his own blood have spilled onto the concrete, crimson red like rose petals against the sand-colored concrete?

It was the one association he couldn't stop; the image which would not leave his mind no matter how hard he tried - blood became rose petals scattering, wilting, dying, darkening from bright crimson to dark mahogany, no matter how hard he tried to keep them alive. It happened with John's blood, Molly's, Lestrade's, Mrs. Hudson's… even Moriarty's… and his own. The imagery was so unforgettable, he found it appearing in front of him as he worked his case using red lines of yarn to draw associations between his rats and their actions. One moment he would be fine, the next the red of the yarn would begin to drip, to pour from the string as if it were a living thing, and as it dripped, the blood would bloom into roses.

He was losing it, hallucinating during his waking hours, because he could not sleep, could not rest while worrying about when John would forgive him, and when he did sleep, his mind would not stop producing horrors for him. Sherlock couldn't help but wonder if this were worse than what John had experienced; he somehow doubted it, because although he missed John terribly, he had no doubt that John would return to him… eventually. He hadn't been forced to watch John die.

What kind of monster had he been?

* * *

_You’re not the only one who needed me; I thought you understood_  
_You were the one I needed, and you left me as I always feared you would_  
_Would I change it if I could?_

 _It doesn’t matter how_  
_The petals scatter now_  
_Every nightmare just discloses_  
_It’s your blood that’s red like roses_

 _And no matter what I do_  
_Nothing ever takes the place of you_

 _Red like roses_  
_Fills my head with dreams and finds me_  
_Always closer_  
_To the emptiness and sadness_  
_That has come to take the place of you_

* * *

The terrorist attack had been stopped, and they hadn't blown up in the abandoned tube car. In retrospect, his deception was probably childish, but in the heat of the moment, it had seemed like a good idea. John, after all, had forgiven him, well and truly. Of course, it had taken him nearly dying - twice! - for it to happen. Sherlock tried not to dwell on that.

They settled into something that approximated normal.

But it wasn't really. Sherlock awoke every morning, more than aware that John was not asleep above him, that there would be no tea or toast waiting, that he would have no one to listen to his violin or to sit in companionable silence reading a paper as he experimented. Where John used to be able to slip from the flat unnoticed for hours and have Sherlock go on talking without notice, now, Sherlock couldn't help but feel the absence of the other man. It was palpable every minute of every day.

He had to screen cases, now, before requesting John help him. He and Mary had settled on an appropriate range for John to work on - nothing too dangerous or too boring, either. He missed John on other cases; he missed John's help with the shopping; he missed John as much as he'd missed him when he was undercover. It was probably worse, now, because he had a constant feeling that John should be with him, but he couldn't be, wouldn't be. Nothing could quite take his loneliness away, even though he tried to pretend it was all okay.

John awoke next to Mary daily, feeling more alone than he ever had before. He should have happy to have a fiance and to have his best friend back. The problem was… he didn't really have Sherlock back. It wasn't like he could ask Mary to move back to Baker Street; that was a wholly unreasonable request. But he missed Sherlock in ways he never anticipated. He missed completing his infuriating errands, missed always making tea for two, missed having to encourage him to eat; he even missed opening the refrigerator and discovering a dismembered body part. All the things he missed in the first weeks of Sherlock's "death" he still missed terribly.

He could take care of Mary, of course, but it wasn't the same. Mary didn't _need_ him to make tea or remind her to eat. She didn't need him to offer seemingly banal observations which lead to a break in a difficult case. She didn't even really need him for companionship, because although she liked having him around, she had other friends.  _He_ had needed _her…_ and now… he didn't really, not with Sherlock back

But it wasn't fair to her to leave, either, because some part of him did love her. Maybe not the same way he loved Sherlock, and that was perhaps the biggest tragedy. After everything, he desperately loved Sherlock more than he loved his future wife. He didn't want to lose either of them, but he couldn't be with them both. Not in the way he wanted. John couldn't quite figure out where his life had gone off-track.

He tried to make room for Sherlock in this new life, as just a friend, but the Sherlock-shaped hole in his life had already been filled with nothing but regret… and Mary. It wouldn't… couldn't be the same; there was no way to go back to the way it used to be, no matter how much he tried to pretend it would all be okay.

At night, they both dreamt of crimson rose petals made of blood, overcome with loneliness and sadness.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments (and kudos) are very much appreciated, even if I don't respond. I enjoy receiving feedback. Thank you for reading!


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